


Skin in the Game

by Miss_M



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Banter, First Time, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-04 02:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16337960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: Flip could remember the sequence of events pretty clearly, and still he wasn’t sure how he came to be sitting on his busted old couch, Ron Stallworth’s capacious afro partly blocking the view of his fridge and kitchen counter, Ron’s hands unzipping Flip’s Wranglers and pulling out his dick.





	Skin in the Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> You wrote in your letter: _Flip’s gay, is what I’m insinuating._ Here you go! 
> 
> This is an extra treat.
> 
> I own nothing.

_He didn’t know, he couldn’t remember, he blacked out, and the next thing he knew, he was standing behind the counter with cash spilling out of his pockets, the blood on the bowie knife and the blood on the corpse at his feet mysteriously matched, his pecker was in someone and he had no clue how it got there._ Flip had heard that bullshit excuse more times than seemed possible or plausible, from guys with brains scrambled by acid or ‘Nam or just having been born unimaginative. 

Well, Flip hadn’t blacked out, he could remember the sequence of events pretty clearly, and still he wasn’t sure how he came to be sitting on his busted old couch, Ron Stallworth’s capacious afro partly blocking the view of his fridge and kitchen counter, Ron’s hands unzipping Flip’s Wranglers and pulling out his dick. Hell, it had been ages since Flip had felt the touch of another’s hand, the different angle of being jacked by someone other than himself, the careful grip and pressure of someone trying him out, trying him on. 

They’d been parked under a dead elm tree at midnight, watching a house on the poor side of town, which belonged to a suspected smack dealer. 

“‘Poor’ is usually code for ‘black’,” Ron had quipped. 

“Thanks for clarifying,” Flip had replied without taking his eyes off the house.

After they’d run out of smokes, they’d shot the shit. Ron was an Army brat, grew up in half a dozen states plus Okinawa, his old man unmollified by Ron’s choice of career. Flip had grudgingly volunteered he’d thought about ROTC but hadn’t had the grades for college, so his old man wasn’t his biggest fan either. 

“Mine hates that I went to college, and yours hates that you didn’t,” Ron summed up. “There’s no pleasing some people.”

“Mine cared more than I did,” Flip said, still watching the house. The only lighted window went dark, leaving only the porch light as a sign of life inside. “I just wanted a job I’d be good at.”

“You didn’t miss much. College is for sissies and faggots.”

Flip guessed that Ron was repeating his father’s words. It didn’t take much, the slightest dip in tone or shift in stance, to recognize a man turning flippant when he couldn’t turn hard and invulnerable. Flip had learned to spot it, had perfected the skill himself earlier than most boys, liked to think that too was a reason for his nickname, not just his piss-poor childhood spelling of his own name. 

Ron gestured at the house. “He’s gone to bed, hasn’t he, and we’re just gonna sit here in case he makes a run for the Canadian border in the middle of the night?”

“Looks like it.”

Ron sucked his teeth. “You ever get a hummer from a man?” he asked. His tone didn’t change from when he’d commented on their shitty assignment.

This time, Flip looked away from the house and at his partner. Lot of good it did him: Ron’s expression was next to impossible to read in the dark car.

“You making a point about the benefits of a college education?” Flip asked, just as calmly. 

Ron cracked a smile: a small one, still playing it cool. “I would never suggest you’re at a disadvantage for lack of a college degree. Also I’m noticing you haven’t punched me yet.”

“Figure I don’t have to. That fox of yours will do it twice as hard when she catches you fooling around like that.”

“Patrice? Nah.” _Now_ Ron’s tone changed: flippant was better than showing hurt. “She decided her conscience wouldn’t permit her to sleep with the enemy. She’s raising the revolution without me.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” Flip meant it too. 

Ron scoffed. “Hey, man, fuck sorry. Answer my question.”

Flip didn’t give a straight answer. He knew all about how men could dance around a subject, all advance and bravado and slip sideways but not retreat. How acting tough and talking big about this particular subject could protect one while wrong-footing others – that, as much as his keeping his cool and Ron’s well-timed lobbing of a projectile through the Kendricksons’ kitchen window, had saved Flip’s life when dealing with that peckerwood maniac Felix. 

In the end, Ron called Sergeant Trapp from the car phone, used his white voice to deflect Trapp’s displeasure at being woken up, and got them released from surveilling the sleeping drug dealer’s house, with plenty of hours left till their next shift. 

Flip said his place was closer and drove there. Halfway there, he realized he might have gotten blown in the car for maximum convenience, but the privacy of his own apartment appealed to him more. The rules of engagement remained unwritten during the drive, and when he unlocked his front door, and when Ron turned down the halfhearted offer of a beer and told Flip to sit down and unzipped his jeans. 

“What, no kiss?” Flip said with his dick in Ron’s hand, trying to keep his breathing under control and knowing he was missing cool by about five miles. “The co-eds must have loved you.”

Ron’s smile was just this side of shit-eating. “I learned about historic injustice and black consciousness. Didn’t need to learn this in college.” 

And that, Flip decided when Ron finally licked his lips and dipped his head, was enough info for him. He let his head rest on the back of the couch and closed his eyes, still counting his breaths and keeping his hands busy gripping the seat cushions. _Fuck_ , it had been ages since anyone’d sucked his dick. He wanted to be naked instead of sweating into his clothes, but the mouth and tongue and tickle of goatee on him took precedence. 

Ron pulled off, wiped his mouth, licked all the way up the underside of Flip’s dick, mouthed at his balls through the V of his open fly, then took him down again and picked up the pace. 

“Fuck, let me touch you,” Flip managed, and without breaking rhythm, Ron’s hand found Flip’s death grip on the couch and laid Flip’s hand on his hair. 

Flip’s fingers sank in and grabbed hold, like he was a kid again picking up handfuls of wet sand at the beach, only Ron’s hair didn’t run through his fingers and leave him feeling stupid for trying. Ron’s hair filled Flip’s hands, and he held on tightly and started to hump, panting loudly now. Ron let him till he arched into Ron’s mouth and came, and was sucked while he came, and dropped back on the couch with his shirt sticking to his back.

“Fuck,” Flip panted eloquently, let go of Ron, and ran his fingers through his own hair, scrubbed his face with his damp palms. “Shit.”

He took a deep breath and dragged his eyes down, away from the ceiling, to where Ron was no longer kneeling between Flip’s legs. Ron was standing, his leather jacket and nylon shirt discarded on the floor, the gold medallion in the middle of Ron’s chest reflecting the light from the streetlamp, Ron’s belt undone and his jeans halfway there. 

“What are you thinking?” Flip asked, and Ron stopped unzipping himself and looked at Flip, like a boxer might have done, half wary and half ready for a sucker punch. 

“I mean, what do you want?” Flip clarified. He’d just blown his load down the guy’s throat, he wasn’t going to start getting philosophical or defensive now, but Ron couldn’t have known that, and Flip didn’t feel like explaining. 

Ron watched him, head cocked, assessing. “I’ll take what you offer, but I’d flip you over if you’re offering. No pun intended,” he added, that half-smile from the car back on his face. 

“Asshole,” Flip muttered, but he peeled himself off the couch and his damp shirt and undershirt off his back. “I’ll be right back.” 

Ron hadn’t moved while Flip ducked into the bedroom and returned. Only Ron’s arm went out like a baseball catcher’s to snatch the foil packet Flip tossed him out of the air. 

“Don’t feel like cleanup,” Flip said off Ron’s look. He also didn’t feel like taking this into the bedroom. His bed was for sleeping, mostly, and they didn’t know each other that well just yet, despite this little adventure. Flip had risked his life for Ron’s crusade, he’d found getting a pipe job from Ron easy, the prospect of getting plowed by Ron ditto, but he needed to draw a boundary somewhere. 

Ron’s shit-eating grin was back and wider than ever, but he sounded more relieved than cocky when he spoke. “You done this before, then?”

Flip made a face, balanced on one leg to pull off his jeans. “I think we’re sharing enough for one evening, don’t you?” 

Ron shrugged and got busy with his own jeans. Flip glanced down Ron’s body, then turned his back on Ron and knelt on the couch, grabbing the armrest with both hands. He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. 

Ron took some time, working up spit audibly and rubbing at and around and into Flip with slick fingers, and Flip didn’t want to ask or to beg, but he also didn’t want to wait forever. He doubted he’d get hard again, but hell, everything counted. 

When Ron tore open the foil, and pulled Flip back and up with an arm around Flip’s waist, Flip held his breath at being maneuvered into position, and then the stretch, the burn, the long, long, dull screech of his flesh being penetrated, and then Ron’s muscular thighs against his own, Ron’s balls, Ron’s pubic hair, Ron’s heavy breathing behind him. 

“Fuck,” Flip said, just once, quietly. 

“Uh huh.” It didn’t sound like a joke or a taunt in Ron’s tight tone. 

Ron held on to Flip’s shoulders and began to hump, fucking Flip with no great finesse but no will to cause harm either. Ron was making short, sharp noises in the back of his throat, like each thrust cost him a great effort. It occurred to Flip, distantly, while Ron’s hands and Ron’s thighs and Ron’s thick dick inside him kept him rooted to the spot and his thoughts in the moment, that maybe it had been ages since Ron had fucked someone in the ass too.

Flip balled his hands into fists on the armrest and laid his forehead on them, and Ron made a noise at the change in angle, wiped his sweaty hands on Flip’s thighs, and, balls-deep and holding still, put his fingers in the hair on the back of Flip’s bowed head, fingertips pressing against Flip’s skull, then dragging down the back of his neck and all the way down his spine. Flip didn’t think he’d handle tenderness too well just then, but he needn’t have worried. When Ron’s fingers reached the spot just above Flip’s asshole, Ron grabbed him by the hips, pulled him even further back, and rutted into him hard and fast. Flip knew what Ron must have looked like just then, eyes blank and rolling, sweat glistening, almost holding his breath, focused only on taking, taking, taking what they both needed. And hell and fuck and shit, Flip had almost convinced himself he hadn’t missed this.

He was just starting to get hard again, when Ron said something unintelligible and thrust, once, twice, twice more, and his hands loosened their hold on Flip’s hips, and Ron blew out his breath loudly and came to rest on Flip’s back, wiry chest hair and sweaty skin and goatee scratching Flip’s shoulder, the gold medallion a round weight on Flip’s spine. Flip sank onto the couch and breathed deep, in and out, under the warm bodyweight on him. He suspected that if he wanted to come a second time at some point, he’d barely need to ask.

“Is it cool if I crash on the couch?” Ron asked Flip’s shoulder blade, drawing deep breaths himself. “Left my car at the station.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Flip knew he should offer to share the bed. He was pretty sure Ron didn’t expect him to: respecting another man’s space became second nature.

“And can I borrow a clean shirt?” Ron’s tone had turned facetious again. Flip could feel him grinning. “I always wanted to take the lumberjack look for a spin.”

Flip extracted his right hand from under him, raised it sideways and level with Ron’s face resting on Flip’s shoulder. His numb fingers protesting the exercise, he folded most of them into a fist and flipped Ron off. 

Ron was still laughing when Flip threw a pillow and a folded blanket at his afro a minute later.

“Sleep tight, man,” Ron told Flip’s retreating back. 

Flip glanced back, in time to see Ron, seated naked on his couch, look up his equally naked body to his face, Ron’s eyes glittering like stars in the dark room. 

“Yeah, you too.” Flip trusted the shadows in the hallway to hide his smile.


End file.
